


June Second

by Chastened



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Jezebel would call this a House of Cards ripoff, Longest Way Round 'verse, M/M, also they'd call it insufferable and wonky with a dash of zany, secret behind-the-scenes political shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25031620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chastened/pseuds/Chastened
Summary: It's Tuesday, June 2, 2020. The year has turned into a high-stakes hellscape. In the midst of the chaos, Pete Buttigieg is about to clinch the Democratic nomination for President. The fulfillment of a lifelong dream is finally in sight, but...Chasten never imagined it would go this way.(A piece set in the Longest Way Round universe.)
Relationships: Chasten Buttigieg/Pete Buttigieg
Comments: 93
Kudos: 58





	1. 6:00am

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Longest Way Round](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20633912) by [Chastened](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chastened/pseuds/Chastened). 



> Between September 2019 to March 2020 I wrote an 80k-word-long AU of the 2020 race in more-or-less real time called Longest Way Round, starring a (presumably) twisted version of Pete and Chasten. You don't need to have read that to read this, although I think being familiar with the general contours of the characters' LWR!selves would make this piece less jarring, lol.
> 
> Anyway, if you're not going to read LWR, just know that in that piece's no doubt extremely fictional universe, Pete is an intense, ambitious, calculating politician, whose intensity, ambition, and calculation are only rivaled by his husband Chasten's. As LWR!Chasten says in chapter seven of Longest Way Round, "We’re not just a personal partnership; we’re a political partnership. We allude to it, but we never elucidate it. Modern politics is theater, and I teach theater. Everything that matters, he takes care of. Everything that shouldn’t matter, I do. Together, we make things happen that we can’t make happen on our own."
> 
> Hope you're distracted by this little glimpse into what these characters are up to, in whatever world it is that they live in.
> 
> \- c.

Chasten awoke that morning with the sun.

Pete, however, had gotten up with the moon - if he had even slept at all. The empty half of their bed was neatly made, and the shirt and tie that had been hanging on the closet door had vanished.

Chasten’s phone was already in his palm; he’d picked it up in his sleep, or fallen asleep with it in his hand. Blearily he scrolled through endless texts. Pete had sent him one:  _ CNN 7:05 _ .

He dropped the phone onto Pete’s crisp pillow and sank back into his own, rubbing his eyes.

Finally he rolled out of bed, stood unsteadily up, and stiffly smoothed back the sheets.

* * *

In the bathroom, the wan light made the towels and tiles look like a breathless still life. He found a livestream of CNN, turning the volume of his tablet up loud enough so that he could hear it over the hiss and splatter of the shower.

_ With everything else going on today, it’s easy to forget that the Democratic primary looks like it's finally coming to a hard-fought end. In one of the most shocking upsets in American political history, former South Bend mayor Pete Buttigieg is positioned to secure the number of delegates necessary to make him his party’s presumptive nominee. _

He got dressed.

_ You know, the Buttigieg campaign has got to be breathing a sigh of relief, that they can finally put all this sniping with the Bernie camp behind them. They’ve also got a interesting optics advantage tonight with the Indiana primary. Obviously Buttigieg has leaned very heavily on his Indiana roots when making his pitch to voters... _

Brushed his teeth.

_ Sources close to the Sanders campaign have been saying to us, and they continue to reiterate, that they need to see, and I quote, “more movement on the issues” from the Mayor’s campaign before issuing a full-throated endorsement. It is their belief that the delegate race was ultimately close enough that they have the leverage to pull a Buttigieg administration to the left. _

He spit out his toothpaste and rinsed out his mouth.

_ Advisors tell us to expect a sharper version of Buttigieg now that we're headed into the general, someone who is eager to demonstrate that he can stand up to President Trump directly. The Mayor's Tweets definitely have had more of an edge to them the last couple of weeks. Is this the campaign sending a deliberate tonal message? How much of this campaign is going to be fought online? _

As he slicked back his hair, he noticed a smudge on the mirror. It distorted his reflection.

_ It's ironic that, in the midst of this historic unrest, the candidate with arguably the weakest record with the Black community is the one who the Democrats ended up nominating. The Biden endorsement was moving as all get-out, and it certainly helped Buttigieg in the South, but an endorsement will only go so far. And at this point in Buttigieg’s career, with the history that he has, and with the ground shifting beneath our feet on these major issues surrounding race and police brutality, it might be a difficult sale to make. _

He took a bottle of Windex from underneath the sink, aimed the trigger squarely, and pulled. Instantly his reflection diffused into a thousand bubbly shards; drops of clear empty fizz trickled down, thick as blood.

_ Are we seriously contemplating handing the presidency of the United States to a thirty-eight-year-old small town mayor who has never won statewide office? In the middle of a pandemic? In the middle of a depression? In the middle of historic racial and cultural unrest?  _ This  _ is the guy who we’re putting up against an unhinged president like Donald Trump? It’s - it’s - it’s delusional! We’ve lost our minds! _

The scent of ammonia hit him.

_ While we’re talking vulnerabilities, there’s always been this sense that Buttigieg is a difficult candidate to get to know as a human being. He’s smart and he’s gay and his husband is funny on Twitter. Great. But what’s he like as a person? What drives him? Because he’s not the elder statesman. He’s not someone like Bernie Sanders or Joe Biden or even Donald Trump, all of whom have been in public life for decades, all of whom Americans know. Telling his story is going to be a major, major challenge for him and his campaign moving forward. _

He reached under the sink again, carefully unwrapped a paper towel from its roll, tore it, and buffed until the glass was dry and spotless.

_ We’re staking the fate of the United States on the premise that homophobia is over. _

He dropped the dirty towel into the empty trash, then looked himself in the eyes, adjusting his gingham collar. His watch and his wedding ring both glinted under the light.


	2. 6:53am

Three terse knocks rapped at the kitchen window. Chasten opened it. Without a word, the Secret Service agent handed him three blush-pink peonies, fresh-cut.

“Did you brush off the ants?” he asked.

The agent didn’t answer, just went to work pitilessly shaking out the stems. Chasten flinched watching. In an ideal world, this kind of thing would be done with finesse, not brute force. But he didn’t complain, and he accepted the shaken blossoms with a smile.

He dropped the stems into the bud vase on the wooden tray. The tray was crowded with a plate of buttered toast and a bowl of fresh-cut fruit and strips of honey-glazed bacon and a little card that read _ Love you love you love you _ . He untied his apron, hung it on a hook, and picked up the tray to carry it down the steep basement steps.

In mid-March, once the virus hit and the race narrowed, Chasten had spent a lonely panicked weekend shoving the boxed-up detritus of their old lives into the corners. Now, in the center of the basement, set back from the fragrant limestone walls, was a studio set, a fake study, well-lit and in front of a camera. Pete sat perched on his stool in his tailored suit and tie, reading his tablet with a furrowed brow. He was too distracted to notice the creak of the stairs.

“Good morning, Mr. Presumptive Nominee,” Chasten said gently, as if he were waking a child.

Pete looked up - smiled a quarter-smile - glanced at his watch. He closed the cover of his tablet, quickly. “Hey.”

Chasten ignored everything irrational he felt about the watch-check and went on with the morning ritual. He set the tray down on a table that was just out of view of the camera. He stepped onto the hot bright set and went to inspect the crystal vase beside Pete. It was bursting with peonies. He slowly examined the old blooms from all angles. Four, he determined, had become too wilted and weak to appear on television again. He pulled them out of the arrangement, their petals softer than skin, and tossed them into the trash.

Satisfied, he stuck the fresh blooms into the empty spaces. He felt Pete’s eyes on him as he worked. “How does that look?” he asked when he was finished.

“Beautiful,” Pete said, a soft awe to his voice.

The single word stirred something in him, magnetizing him out of his routine. He turned, and all ten of his fingertips suddenly came to rest on Pete’s face, thumbs grazing the corners of his mouth. He felt a tiny reflexive smile playing beneath. Chasten closed his eyes - leaned down - kissed the taste of mint on his bottom lip.

“What are you doing?” Pete whispered; “what you think I’m doing,” Chasten whispered back, and he pulled closer as Pete pushed away.

They said nothing for a while. As delayed despondence at the rejection hit him, Chasten’s hands drifted down his face to the sides of Pete's neck, hesitating just below his ears. Then Pete reached out, tugging weakly at the gingham shirt, pulling him in for an embrace instead of a kiss. Chasten felt unsteady breath against his shoulder.

A few moments passed.

Eventually Chasten tilted his wrist to look at his watch. To do so was torture. “Seven minutes till CNN goes live,” he whispered.

Pete’s fingers had been fidgeting with Chasten’s shirt, undoing and re-doing a single button, again and again. But finally he buttoned it a last time, and smoothed the fabric. “I know.”

Chasten waited for Pete to move, but he didn’t; Chasten realized he would have to be the one to step back, so he did. Swallowing a warm confusing mix of guilt and grief, he picked up the makeup from the table and started brushing powder over Pete’s face.

“Were you watching CNN this morning?” Pete asked.

Chasten lied without thinking. His subconscious was twitching for information. “Not yet,” he said. “What are they saying?”

Pete didn’t answer. His gaze grew distant.

He asked again. “What were they saying, love?”

“Oh,” he said. “A lot of scattershot things.”

“Today’s historic. You’re historic. Close your eyes.” Pete obeyed. Chasten lightly buffed the brush over where he’d just touched. “How’d you sleep last night?”

“Like shit.”

“It’ll get better.”

Pete opened his eyes. “It’ll get better when I’m President?”

Chasten froze, brush in the air. He took a moment to consider. “It’ll get better someday,” he finally said.

Pete looked at him. Then he nodded and closed his eyes again. They didn’t say any more. When they were done, Chasten kissed the top of his head before picking up the empty bud vase and going back up the steps.


	3. 7:13am

Cersei laid in the sheets, her sleek body luxuriating in the heat. Behind her, Veda stared unblinking, tail tip twitching.

He heard Lis scurrying up the attic stairs. “Either you tell Pete or I do,” she said, bursting in without preamble. She was carrying two dishes, each piled with finely diced meat. Cersei stood and stretched, cast a last disgusted gaze at Chasten, and hopped to the floor to inspect her breakfast.

He tried not to sound panicked. “Have you heard anything more?”

“No.”

“Well,” he said. She flopped down next to him on the futon, took a swig of coffee, and turned up Pete’s CNN appearance. “If you haven’t heard anything more...” He let the suggestion hang in the air.

She was blunt. “We should have told him last week, and we both know it.”

On screen, Pete was getting heated. “The President of the United States just used tear gas and rubber bullets on peaceful protesters just so he could take a photo op at church. This man knows nothing of God. Nothing of peace. He knows nothing and our country will continue to burn because of it.”

“Shit, you write so well for him," she said.

Chasten didn’t bother voicing his agreement; something about Pete looked wrong. He tilted his head. “Did you fuck with the lighting down there?”

“Not since I caught you fucking the candidate down there.”

Chasten shot an exasperated glance. “You should have thought about that before you insisted on quarantining with us.” He turned his attention back to the screen. “It looks darker than usual under his eyes. He needs more sleep.”

“Or more makeup.”

They watched him. The peonies were beautiful.

Lis picked up the thread he’d tried to drop. “But like I was saying, I’m going to tell him at our morning briefing. Just so you know.”

He didn’t look at her. “What are you going to say?”

“‘One of Chasten’s exes is talking to Ronan Farrow.’”

He swallowed. “That’s it?”

She sighed and continued. “‘But if Chasten’s telling the truth about how that relationship ended, then there’s absolutely nothing the fuck to worry about, so even though I know he’s under a shit-ton of stress, Chasten should realize that he needs to take a fucking tranquilizer and that the country is focused on other problems besides what vindictive asshole he stuck his dick into ten years ago.’”

She paused to give him time to cringe. He didn’t. She went on.

“‘Of course, that’s assuming Chasten’s telling the truth. If his ex is, and if his ex has proof that Chasten can dish out abuse as good as he got it, then we’re in a category five shitstorm, and Trump’s probably found his special guest for the debates.’”

He shifted positions. Turned to look at her. He knew she knew that truth doesn’t matter, but he felt like this did.

“I don’t hurt people in ways that show,” he said.

Her eyes flickered back and forth across his face. He held her gaze, willing for her to believe him. Finally she nodded. “I believe you,” she said.

He sighed, half-relieved. “I just don’t want to be a distraction. Are you sure we can’t - ” He stopped to start again. “We haven’t exhausted every - ”

“I refuse to play Michael Cohen to your ex’s Stormy Daniels.”

He flushed at the comparison. “I’m not saying we cut a check, because there's nothing to cut a check _for._ I’m saying there are smarter ways to - ”

“Your memoir is the smarter way.”

“I don’t - ”

“See what he accuses you of. Come up with a counter-story to shut him up. Stick it into chapter seventeen. Get your mom to swear you’re telling the truth. Give a teary interview. Leave the sass in your Twitter drafts for a few weeks. Pump up the book sales. Then there’ll be a tennis match in the media.  _ Which gay drama queen is telling the truth? _ The guy nobody knows, who Chasten has called an abuser for literally years? Or the sweet smiling teacher who has been preparing for this moment his entire life, whose adoring parents are backing him up a hundred percent, who has eighteen months of campaigning and media training and the weight of the Democratic establishment behind him?” She knocked back the last of her coffee in triumph. “Everything goes so fast nowadays, whatever controversy there is will burn out by the first debate. It’ll be your version of the tapes case.”

As soon as she said it, they both realized she’d crossed a line. “We’re still dealing with the tapes case,” he said tersely.

“Well,” she said. “Bad example.” She leaned back, looking for the words. “Just…” Cersei jumped up between them and began washing her face. Lis ran a hand down her shining coat. Cersei glared up at him. “Be less afraid, Chasten,” Lis said. “Don’t bleed in the water.”


	4. 11:42am

They passed each other on the staircase, Pete going up, Chasten going down. Even as he walked, Pete was reading. This morning it was a stack of papers an inch thick, tiny neon-colored sticky note strips poking out from the margins. Without thinking, he moved over so that Chasten could pass him by. His tie had gone crooked. When they met in the middle, Chasten reached out to straighten it.

"Thank you," Pete said, taking his hand and leaving a distracted kiss on it before turning a page.

“Feeling better?” Chasten asked.

A grim smile. “Somewhat." He continued up, still reading.

Chasten didn’t move. “Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes,” he told the balusters.

“Thank you.”

Chasten hesitated. He wobbled with indecision. Finally, at the very last second, he turned around and spoke. “Peter?” His voice cracked. “I have something to tell you.”

Pete stopped. “Can it wait?” he asked, eyes still darting across the paper. “I can give you ten minutes for lunch. Just have one more briefing.”

“It’s about the briefing, actually.”

“Oh.” Pete turned around, too. He didn't look up. “Quickly.”

Chasten realized he didn’t know what to say. “You’ll still - you promise…” he started.

But he wasn't able to get any further than that. And in the end, his disjointedness was the thing that finally got Pete's attention.  Chasten did his best to ignore the blaze of the blue eyes bearing down on him.

“Even if I’d be the reason everything fell apart…” His breath grew shallow. He felt his pulse tripping in his temples. “You’d still love me, wouldn’t you?”

He watched Pete’s face carefully. Pete raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Chasten wondered what he meant. “Lis knows more than I do,” he said, “but…” He paused for a moment, terrified - then forced himself to jump over the edge. “The New Yorker is looking into things I’ve been accused of doing.”

Chasten heard the sharpness of Pete’s tone before he understood his words, and he gripped the railing tight beneath his white fingers. “Campaign things?”

“No.” As soon as he said the syllable, Pete’s shoulders relaxed. For some reason, that relaxation made Chasten feel all the tighter. “Love life things,” he said. “Abuse.” He cleared his throat. “Abusive behavior.”

“Oh.” Pete glanced away, but only for a split-second. “That.”

“Yeah,” Chasten said, voice quiet. “I just wanted you to hear it from me first.”

For a few moments, the only sound was Buddy’s untrimmed toenails wandering across the bare wood in the upstairs hallway.

Chasten couldn’t handle the silence, couldn't handle not knowing what it meant. So he burst into it, nervously, dejectedly defiant. “It’s not true. What he must be saying. I didn’t hurt him like that. I've never hurt anyone like that.”

Pete didn’t react. He just stood there, implacably considering.

Chasten could feel a trickle of sweat drip down his ribs.

Finally Pete spoke. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you. I appreciate the honesty.” His smile seemed to want to convey gratitude, but it was a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“You believe me?” Chasten asked up at him, a little desperate.

Pete shrugged. “I have to.”

“You’re not angry?”

At that, his expression seemed to soften. “Why would I be angry?”

Suddenly Chasten didn’t know. “Because you’ve been angry about the past before,” he said.

Slowly, Pete stepped down, a pitying expression on his face. “That was back before I had any responsibility,” he said. “Back when I thought our arguing was the worst thing that could ever happen.” He reached out and brushed Chasten’s cheek with the back of his hand. Pete's skin felt refreshingly cool in the hopelessly hot summer day. “We worked through it.”

Chasten waited to feel relieved. “You’re sure?”

“Positive,” Pete said. “You’ve always been able to take care of yourself. You’re the least of my worries right now.” He leaned in, kissed Chasten’s cheek. “I love you.”

And he turned his back and continued his ascent. Chasten stood there, blinking and paralyzed.

He heard Pete’s footsteps stop at the head of the stairs. “Hey, Mike,” he said, “I want to go over the agenda before you get here tonight,” and he slipped into an effortless French. It was the language of love, and the one that Mike and Pete used when they didn’t want anyone around them to understand what they were saying.


	5. 12:13pm

Chasten sat at the dining room table, Pete to his right, Lis to his left, Buddy pacing between them, whining for scraps and attention. Apart from Buddy’s whines, the room was deathly silent. It was easier to text than to talk.

All three of their phones gave staggered pings. They sighed in unison and swept up simultaneously.

_ Donald J. Trump @realDonaldTrump 37 s _

_ DNC has never been more corrupt, and that’s including days of Crooked Hillary! Look at how they reject Bernie (crazy but voter’s choice) to push racist Petite Pete. Will be very easy to outdo him. KEEP AMERICA GREAT! _

Chasten glanced up.

Lis gave a single startling cackle. Her thumbs immediately began a gleeful assault on her screen.

Pete bit his lip and furrowed his brow, clearly looking for a meaning in the words that wasn't there.

Chasten just set his phone down, and then his fork. He looked out the window at the sky. His appetite was gone.


	6. 1:28pm

Chasten was hosting a virtual roundtable with Black trans youth when he heard muffled curses and bangs coming from the attic. He made the mistake of glancing up, confirming to everyone that the hubbub was in his house.

He darted through the rest of his canned goodbye. “It has been an honor and a privilege to listen to your stories this afternoon. I promise I’m going to carry those stories directly to Peter and directly to the campaign, and again, I just can’t thank you enough for your bravery, your generosity, your strength of spirit. Thank you.” He slid his hand over the keyboard to mute his microphone.

As soon as he’d disconnected, he slammed the laptop lid closed and called Emily. “Could you hear any of that on the stream?” he asked, swiveling in the chair, piqued, and standing up.

“I heard everything. What happened?”

“Shit." He sighed. "I’ll call you back.”

He started climbing the attic stairs, furiously at first, then more tentatively once he started to make out what the voices were saying.

“Settle the motherfucking fuck down.” It was Lis. “I’m getting more information. Ro’s trying to set up the comms meeting now.” Then, to no one in particular: “Zoom can go choke on a tiny, hairy goddamn dick.”

He rounded the top of the steps. Lis was sitting cross-legged and barefoot on her tangled sheets, two tablets and a laptop scattered across her mattress, TV remote in one hand and phone in the other, and a cat stretched out on either side of her, unbothered.

Chasten cleared his throat. “What’s going on?”

Pete turned around to shout. “Fucking Trump.”

“Fucking Barr,” Lis said. “Fucking _Zoom_.”

“Damn them to hell and back.”

Chasten stood there, confused. Pete opened the minifridge doubling as Lis’s bedside table, took a bottle of Bud Lite, and broke it open against their bookcase. Chasten flinched then froze, staring at the broken glass and the beer dripping onto their books, pooling on the floor.

“What’s going on?” he repeated. He didn’t know what else to say.

“We don’t know yet; that’s the problem.” Pete stood, neck of the bottle gripped tight in his hand, quivering with a barely restrained rage that Chasten had never seen before. Finally he hurled the glass into the trash and stalked the few steps over to the futon, sitting down and hanging his head, defeated. Chasten stepped over the fizz and broken glass to sit next to him, to stroke his arm. He looked up at Lis and mouthed  _ what the fuck? _

She was too impatient to deal with his cluelessness. She nodded at the TV. The attorney general was speaking, flanked by tall and serious men. “DOJ’s in the middle of a press conference,” she said. “Apparently they’re responding to Minneapolis by opening some federal investigations into different cities’ policing practices.”

“But isn’t that a good - ” He stopped as soon as he felt the muscles in Pete’s back clench - which is when everything made sense. “No,” he said. “They can’t open one up here. It would be too obvious.”

“South Bend is on the list and Chicago isn’t. Fucking _Chicago,_ " Pete moaned.

“What’s the pretense of choosing here?”

Pete stared at him with what felt like dumb admiration at his naiveté. “There is no pretense,” he said. “When have they ever needed a pretense for anything? The pretense is wanting to hurt me. Trying to hurt us.”

Chasten glanced at Lis for a dose of sanity. “I’m still getting details,” she muttered, not in a position to supply it. “Calm your tits.”

“How were we caught off-guard by this?" Pete demanded. "Does the Democratic Party not have any sources at DOJ? I’m on the verge of becoming the fucking nominee for fucking President of the United States! I refuse to run a campaign that’s so fucking inept we can’t - ”

In a helpless attempt to soothe, Chasten’s fingers began writing on his back in a loopy cursive. He didn’t even finish the second word -  _ love  _ \- before Pete stood up and started pacing, restless. Chasten bit his lip. He left the attic and came back a few minutes later with a trash bag and a broom and a dust pan, and robotically began to clean up the broken bottle. Pete had gone back to shouting.

“Because then they don’t just get me; they get Mike, too. They get the man who was my chief of staff for the whole tapes scandal. And let’s be clear, Mike  _ covered  _ for me, okay? So if DOJ’s really following through on this, he has to go. I can’t be weighed down by him.”  Chasten stiffened.  “If Mike motherfucking Schmuhl becomes the reason this whole thing falls apart, I swear to God…”

Lis interrupted the harangue. “Give us fifteen minutes to draft a preliminary response and figure out how we push it out,” she said, voice flat. “We’ll reconvene then. Chasten, stop cleaning shit up; you’re not Pete's fifties housewife. Have Emily keep you on your schedule. Pete, you go research Norwegian sewers or whatever the fuck calms you down. I can’t work with a worked-up client.”

Pete’s eyes narrowed, but he fell begrudgingly silent. Chasten glanced between the two. When it became clear that Lis’s cool authority had won out, he took Pete’s hand and pulled him down the stairs.

“I cannot fucking  _ believe  _ \- ” Pete insisted, fuming, and, not knowing what else to do, Chasten pushed him off-balance and back against the wall and started to kiss him, biting his lip just a little too hard, just a little too long, and pulling back just barely until he could feel Pete start to melt into the pain. As soon as he knew he had Pete's attention, he eased up, was just a little gentler, until finally Pete started to kiss him back, and Chasten felt Pete's hands starting to roam against him, palms and fingertips hungry.

“Been a while, hm?” Chasten murmured. A wave of relief washed over him when Pete nodded, quickly, desperately. Chasten kissed along the edge of Pete's jaw, his lips coming to rest beside his husband's ear. He whispered into it, felt the scent of him emanating up from his shoulder. “Let me take care of you, Peter," he said, and he let his hand trace down his chest until it was resting on his belt. "After all, that’s the whole reason I’m here, isn’t it? ... To take care of you?”  Pete’s hands had come to rest on his shoulders. Chasten felt Pete's thumbs there, drawing panicked little circles over the gingham; the circles grew faster, as if in answer to Chasten's question. They breathed together, heavily.

Pete looked away. When he finally spoke, it was in a low voice. “If they come after you, if they hurt you in any way…” He turned his head to look Chasten in the soul. “I will fucking annihilate them.”

Chasten felt as if he were the one backed up against the wall then, pinned back by the fury in the gaze. There was a long questioning silence, during which nothing was answered. Chasten felt a chill. “You need more sleep,” he said.

“I know,” Pete said, and he shook his head a little and broke away and went into his study. The sound of the door closing had a finality to it, and it echoed in the hallway.


	7. 2:10pm

His hands only trembled a little as he folded the laundry. He kept glancing from the crisp white shirts toward his tablet propped up on the dresser. He was Facetiming his mom, and she was paging through a thick stack of papers he’d sent in the mail a few days earlier. She was saying nothing.

“So you’re good with it?” he asked after a long silence.

She shrugged helplessly and set the papers down. “It’s written already, babe. I don’t know what to say.”

He set a freshly folded white shirt into the dresser drawer, as carefully as if he was setting a baby into a crib.  “Well,” he offered, stalling for time. “It hasn’t gone to print. I still have a few more weeks to change things.”

He looked at her meaningfully through the screen. She looked away.

He tried another tack. “If you’re not comfortable with what I wrote about you…”

He trailed off, words hanging in the air. She gave the sigh she sighed when she was confused or uncertain, and, without even thinking about it, he used the opportunity to twist the knife.

“I feel like I was more than fair to you and Dad.”

“You were.”

“I smoothed out a lot of the rough edges.”

“You did.”

“And I hope that…” He didn’t understand why his throat was tightening. “I hope that that smoothing shows you how much I want you to be okay with this.”

She looked around her. Chasten could see in his mind’s eye exactly what she was looking at: the shelves of knickknacks and school projects she’d never had the heart to throw away - the wall of photographs of the three boys growing up - the bookcase with a shelf groaning under the weight of VHS tapes from the nineties. She seemed to be blinking back tears. “I miss you,” she said. “I’m terrified. I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”

He couldn’t let her know that all his nightmares lately had involved being hurt, in every possible way by every possible person. So he just said “I miss you, too, Mom” and kept folding the white shirts.

“I talked to Rhyan,” she said, still not looking at the camera, and Chasten stopped folding for a moment.

“What?” he asked, starting again.

“Well, I didn’t talk. But we’ve been texting.”

He set the white shirt in the drawer on top of the last white shirt. “I thought we decided that wasn’t a good idea until after November.”

She looked at the camera now, looked at him, but he didn’t look back at her. “I know, but… He’s my baby, too, Chasten. And we’re following ground rules. We don’t talk about you at all. I’m not saying anything that he’ll use against you.” When Chasten didn’t reply, she added, a little desperately, “He’s sending pictures of the kids, mainly.”

Hearing her say "kids" felt like someone had sliced open the skin above his sternum. He took a breath, wheels spinning as he tried to think of what a good son would say. “Well, I’m… I’m glad you can do that.” He did his best to hide the bitterness in his voice. “You deserve to enjoy being a grandma.”

“Thank you.” She paused. Chasten set another perfectly folded white shirt in the drawer. “He’s got people bothering him at all hours. Press people. Activists. And it’s getting worse.” Her eyes were as piercing as if they were standing side-by-side.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said. “I’ll talk to someone. I’m sure the campaign can pay for security. Protection for the candidate’s family, that kind of thing.” He picked up his phone to type a note to himself. As he texted, he tossed off a criticism, casually. “He should have come to Peter and me directly.”

“He was afraid you’d offer and use it as leverage to get him to be quiet.”

He stopped typing mid-sentence. “Oh.”

Her voice grew hard. “Which, of course, you would never, ever do.” It was a warning: a red line.

“No,” he said. “I’d never do that.”

He finished writing the note, set down his phone, and picked up another shirt, which was when she dropped a bombshell.

“He’s writing a memoir.”

Chasten dropped the shirt to the floor. “What?”

“He thinks it’s a way to get them to leave him alone. Or at least come up with enough money to pay for security and not have to depend on you and Peter.”

He had so many questions so suddenly that he could practically feel his every other worry dash for cover. “With what publisher? Who’s his agent? When?”

“I don’t know,” she said. He leaned down to pick up the shirt, dusty now with dog hair, and shook it out three hard snaps in a row. “You’re always saying never to talk politics with him, so I didn’t ask - "

He set the shirt down unfolded and gave the screen his full attention. “A book isn't just about politics, Mom,” he said. “A book's about us. This is…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, a book? Is he even _capable?"_

She took a moment to gather herself. When she spoke, her voice dripped with ice. “You’ve always assumed we’re such idiots,” she said, and it wasn’t untrue.

He immediately felt the same hot shame he’d felt as a boy when he’d done something wrong. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

The apology softened something in her. “Look,” she said, thinking carefully how to phrase what she wanted to say. “I’m not defending how he’s treated you or Peter. I’d never do that. But if you look at this from his perspective, this whole…” She struggled for a word that didn’t exist. Finally she just settled on "experience." “This whole _experience_ came out of nowhere, and he had no time to prepare, and I hate to even say it, but… I relate, babe.”

Chasten looked down at the drawer of shirts. “I know,” he said. Admitted. “Trust me, I know.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and communicated something in the eye contact that he didn’t completely understand.

“I’m not going to tell you what you should put in your book, or what he should put in his book,” she said. “We all live our own lives. We all have our own stories.”

Chasten said nothing.

“But… You don’t know what it’s like; you can’t; I just…” She started the thought over again. “I want you to remember that losing a child, in any way…” She took a shaky breath. Chasten froze, and involuntarily remembered dropping a page of poetry about a blue-veined daughter into the flames of their fireplace two Octobers ago, and watching the paper curl up on itself and burn. “It’s the worst feeling in the world. So just. Remember that, please. As you’re editing. That’s all.”

He stared.

“Don’t write anything that makes me lose both of you.”

He folded the last shirt. “I won’t,” he said, and he closed the drawer. He knew it was a promise he wouldn't keep.

She knew it, too. She smiled at him, but her smile, usually so effervescent, just looked sad and tired. “Send our love to Peter, babe,” she said, and he knew the conversation was over. “Take good care of him. He’s doing such a wonderful job.”


	8. 3:22pm

He sat on the back porch steps. The air was hot and humid; the rays of the sun scorched his sleeves. He was waiting for the Secret Service agent to return with the dogs. He'd been told a few days ago that this week’s threat level was exceptionally high, between the liberals furious at their having defeated Bernie and the conservatives furious they might defeat Trump. But the dogs didn’t care one iota about the implications of security strategy, so Chasten had had to learn to be satisfied with leashing them up and watching them bound away next to an agent. They did the pick-up and the drop-off in the alley to avoid the cadre of journalists stationed in the front yard.

As he waited, he thought of that alley, forbidden to him now, and how often they'd lazily walk its potholed length in summers past. He remembered taking their time at twilight, veering from side-to-side and laughing at the others’ jokes as the dogs sniffed the chipping fence posts and fragrant weeds.

He remembered suddenly the person who was always their reward at the end of those walks. Horror struck him, that he hadn’t reached out lately. He took his phone from his pocket and dialed.

“Hey, Anne,” he said once she picked up. “It’s Chasten. How are you doing?”

There was a disbelieving pause. Not that he blamed her. He scratched an itch on his kneecap that wasn’t there. “Quite well, thank you, given the circumstances,” she finally said. He waited for her to say more, but she was silent.

It struck him that over the last three months Anne had drained away from him like sand sifting through the fingers of a fist. He didn’t know what she was doing to pass the days. He didn’t know who was buying her groceries. He didn’t know how she was mourning the loss of her husband. He felt staggered suddenly by his inhumanity.

“No, I mean it,” he said firmly. “Tell me how you’re doing.” He waited. No response. He decided to open up to her, so that she might try opening up to him. “Right now,” he said, looking up into the sky, “I’m in the backyard waiting for security to get back from walking the dogs. There’s Secret Service all around. They're listening to me now, and I'm never going to get used to it. My husband is about to declare victory in the primary from our basement. We’re going up against the most corrupt president in American history, and we have no clue what tricks he’ll pull to stay in office. So tell me. Be real with me. Please.” He found himself begging. “I’m one of the few people who can actually understand.” A hesitation. “And you’re one of the few people who can understand me.”

He was starting to wonder if the line had gone dead when she finally spoke. “It’s very dystopian here,” she allowed. “And yet - it’s nothing like what you’re enduring.” That was all she had to offer.

The harder she proved to be to connect with, the more desperately he needed to connect. Maybe it would be easier in-person. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over tonight?” he asked.

“I was told to stay away,” she said.

“What?”

“In no uncertain terms.”

“By who?”

“Peter wants to model the CDC’s social distancing recommendations,” she said. “My presence would be cause for criticism, and he doesn’t want distractions.”

This threw him off balance. For the entire campaign, he had taken it for granted they would be together when it was all over, whispering catty things in the other’s ears and exchanging teary glances of pride and sighing at how helpless Peter was without them. He wondered if Pete was actually concerned with CDC recommendations, or just using them as an excuse to keep her away, or - suddenly, irrationally, he thought this - to keep them apart.

“I’m so sorry, Anne,” he said. “I can talk to him about…” He trailed off. He didn’t know what he could talk to him about.

“That won’t be necessary,” Anne said stiffly. “He’s correct. We’re in the modern age; I can watch safely from home.” She took a moment, then twisted a knife that Chasten didn’t even know she had. “You two chose quite the cycle to compete in.”

_It wasn't his choice; it was mine,_ he almost said. “Yeah,” he found himself saying instead.

“Things could have gone very differently.”

And they were quiet a moment, both imagining how.

Inconveniently, in the middle of that uneasy quiet, he heard a vehicle creeping through the alley, along with two muffled barks.

“Listen, Anne,” he said, speaking quickly, “I’m sorry; I have to go; the dogs are back from their walk and I need to - ”

“Certainly,” she said. “Congratulations to both of you.” Then, almost accusingly: “You’ve been integral to Peter’s success.”

He pressed his eyes tightly closed, then opened them again. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“Mmhm,” she said, "thank you," but she was already on to the next thing, and she was the one to end the call. He tried to shake it off, hurriedly stuffing his phone into his pocket and striding over to the back gate.

Buddy burst into the yard ahead of Truman and immediately began a loud, exuberant sniff through their overgrown garden. Chasten took the leashes from the agent in black, about to say “thank you," but before he could, a leash whirled around him and nearly pulled his shoulder out of its socket. Buddy had somehow uncovered a rabbit's nest beneath the hostas, and he was standing by gleefully as Truman nosed through the pile of warm sleeping bodies. Before Chasten could yank him back, Truman was squeezing a baby rabbit between his teeth.

“Truman!” he screamed. “Jesus Christ! Bad dogs! Drop it! Drop it now!”

Startled by the loud voice, Truman dropped the rabbit and began to whine and lick his lips. _Why are you yelling? This is what I was born to do,_ he seemed to be saying. Chasten wordlessly handed the leash back to the agent and knelt down on the grass to examine the rabbit. It was injured, and badly. It was so young that its eyes hadn’t opened yet.

The agent interrupted Chasten’s horrified stare. “Do you need a baggie, sir?”

“For what?” he asked, reaching out to comfort the spasming little body, but stopping at the last minute.

“Disposal of the body, sir.”

Chasten cursed silently that his years of 4H training somehow hadn’t trained him for this. “I’ll do it,” he said, standing up, knees shaky. He went into the kitchen, dazed, and returned with a plastic bag. He hesitated a moment over the shivering body, long enough that the agent stepped toward him, as if about to take over. “No,” Chasten said. “I…” He swallowed. “I need to be the one do it.” The agent didn't argue and stepped back.

He stood up and looked around. Saw a hoe leaning against the side of the garage. Took a deep breath, went over to pick the handle up with both hands. After a moment of hesitation, he sliced the rabbit’s head off. The body finally, mercifully, went still.

Immediately the dogs were pulling on their leashes harder than ever. Once he had the rabbit's body bagged up, and the handles tied in two knots, Truman made another lurch for it - but Chasten, furious, kneed him harder than he meant to. Truman’s hungry offended whine was pitched high, and Chasten didn’t know who to apologize to first: Truman, the agent, or the dead rabbit. Jerkily, he turned around and opened the trash can lid and dropped the bag into it. When he turned around, wiping his hands on his jeans, Buddy was watching and winking at him, tail wagging. Truman stared, looking betrayed beneath the sun.


	9. 4:23pm

He shrugged a sport coat on over his gingham shirt and sat down in the cool silence of the office. According to the clock, he had a full seven minutes of freedom before his next virtual fundraiser. He felt strangely nervous about the precious empty time and space, an anxiety to use it productively. He saw the remote control on the corner of the desk, and his phone. He knew he had to ignore them. He knew it. So he closed his eyes, took three deep breaths - and then suddenly stopped pretending and reached for the remote and turned up MSNBC while opening Twitter.

MSNBC was discussing remarks the President had made to the press corps earlier in the day. He’d been asked about Pete’s expected primary win that evening. “I’m excited to run against Pete,” he answered, squaring his hands in front of his chest as if miming a box. “Petite Pete, as I call him. Tremendously excited. You will find he will be easy for me to beat. He is a small man, a very small man, in the sense of not being very good in business, you have to be good at business to be President, as well as just a very not-good mayor, to be perfectly honest. Very bad. If you look at the crime rates, the spikes. Just out-of-control. And more and more people, I think, will be seeing what a terrible job he did.”

Chasten leaned back in his chair, swiveling it slowly, thinking.

“Is America ready for a gay President, do you think, sir?” an earnest reporter asked, and involuntarily Chasten rolled his eyes at the idea that someone thought Donald Trump’s answer to that question was worth anything at all.

“I think when you look at all the decorations, the fashion that Melania brings, you wouldn’t want to change First Ladies.”

The camera cut back to the studio. “So,” Nicole Wallace said. “What do we think of that?”

The members of the roundtable all shook their heads in disappointed performative dismay, eager to share their knowledge of all the ways the President was offensive. “Well, what Donald Trump is using here is a kind of coded language,” a panelist began explaining, and at that point, Chasten stopped paying attention. He switched to one of his alt Twitter accounts and navigated to his list of election experts, checking for exit poll trends, flawed as they were going to be. In every state, high numbers of voters were citing Medicare for All as their most important issue when choosing a candidate. More so than he would have expected. He bit his lip and tried to push out of his mind the possibility of yet another Sanders surge they couldn't afford.

As he was reading, his phone buzzed a few times: three text notifications. He smiled with an almost whole-body relief when he saw it was Doug Emhoff. He opened them up. The smile quickly faded.

_ Don’t tell P yet _

_ Very preliminary, but _

_ Just between us _

Chasten watched the gray dots appear and disappear. He set the phone down on the surface of the desk and clasped his hands and watched the screen.

_ Kamala’s running cool on vp today _

Chasten’s brow furrowed. He typed a few messages but deleted them all, finally landing on a one word reply: _Why?_

_ She’s nervous about what this DOJ investigation might dig up _

_ We know it’s bull but _

_ It’s a warning shot from Trump/Barr _

Chasten couldn’t help but feel hurt at that. _Shouldn’t we all stand together?_ _If Kamala runs in ‘24, they’ll just pull the same shit then._

_ She might not run in ‘24 _

_ If there’s still a risk _

He felt his heart beat a little faster. _?_ , he typed finally, and he pressed send.

_ Risk of what Trump’s been talking about behind closed doors _

_ We all know he spouts off things he doesn’t mean or can’t make happen _

_ But _

_ Still _

_ We’ve got the kids _

Chasten picked the phone up again. _Risk?_

The dots appeared and disappeared. Every time they did he gripped the phone a little tighter.

_ Ask Pete _

_ I don’t know all the details _

He looked up at the TV. “And more and more people, I think, will be seeing what a terrible job he did,” he saw the President say again, and then he noticed the clock and realized he had run out of time.


	10. 9:17pm

The garage smelled entirely like the past, like half-used bags of potting soil, and sand for icy sidewalks, and old damp wood, and dirty rusted tools. The only light came from a single bulb hanging from a ceiling beam, with a long bedraggled string hanging down from it.

“Hello,” Chasten said.

“Hey,” Mike said.

Mike reached out his hand. Chasten took it, albeit hesitantly, and they shook.

“Do you mind?” Mike asked, nodding sideways at the car. Chasten was about to mock the idea that they needed to sit in the car just to speak freely, but then out the window he saw the beam of a patrolling agent’s flashlight. He sighed, stepped in front of Mike, opened the car door, and sat pointedly in the driver’s seat. Mike didn’t object, just walked around the hood before sitting down beside him.

“So," Mike said as soon as they were settled. He took out his phone and started scrolling. "Been watching the exit polls?”

“No," Chasten said, "I’ve been drinking in a wine cave.” Mike kept reading. “Of course I’ve been fucking watching the exit polls.” He paused, glancing at the light of the phone on Mike’s face. “If you summoned me to a private meeting in my car to talk about exit polls, I’m going to fucking take that hoe over there and - ”

“He’s coming in weaker than would be ideal,” Mike murmured, ignoring him. “Especially in Indiana. I was hoping for more in Indiana…” He trailed off, and the only sound was their breathing. “I wanted him to win big in Indiana.”

The stale stuffy heat of the car was suddenly unbearable. “Yeah, well,” Chasten said, sullenly unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. “Leave it to 2020 to gift us a week of press about police violence right before we sew up the nomination.” He looked at Mike. “Plus the DOJ announcement.”

Mike didn’t react, just kept scrolling. “Mm.”

“And…” He thought of Doug’s texts, which he had memorized. “Whatever else they’re planning.”

Mike clearly grew uncomfortable at the words. Chasten thought he had him, thought Mike was going to crack and reveal whatever secret he’d clearly been instructed to keep. But then he set down his phone, looked straight into Chasten’s eyes, and said something completely unexpected instead. “It does seem like the kind of thing a good campaign manager would have anticipated.”

Chasten stared at him. He was unnerved by Mike’s direct gaze and lack of defensiveness. “Yes," Chasten allowed. "It...does.”

Mike shifted and took out his wallet. He took out two pills, white and small and oblong. He laid them on his palm and extended that palm over the glove box between them. They were practically underneath Chasten’s nose. To his horror, Chasten realized he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

He looked into Mike’s eyes again. “A good campaign manager would also refrain from offering pills to the candidate’s husband,” he said.

“Keep one for later. They’re for anxiety.” Mike paused. “They’ll help you sleep.”

Chasten felt weak. Begrudgingly, he picked one up. Mike swallowed the other.

“So what do you think?” Mike asked.

“About your addiction?” Chasten asked, slipping the pill into his pocket for later.

“About me quitting as campaign manager.”

Mike spoke the words with such a blase carelessness that it took Chasten a moment to understand their meaning. “I…” Chasten said, but he couldn’t think of words to follow.

Mike laughed a little bitter laugh to himself and reclined his seat. “So," he said. "You’ve fantasized about it, but never actually thought about it. Interesting.”

Chasten’s face burned; he didn’t know why. “Peter wouldn’t go for it,” he said, defending his lack of imagination, “so what’s the point?”

Mike folded his hands on his chest. “I’m under a lot of pressure to resign.”

“Pressure? From who?”

Mike's voice went monotone. “People with power. People in the party. They’re terrified I’m too inexperienced. Too Midwest. Too naive.” He glanced out the window at the bicycles, hanging unused from the ceiling by their tires. “They’re probably not wrong.”

Chasten swallowed, suddenly nervous. “If they think you’re too inexperienced…” He hesitated. “What are they saying about Pete?”

Mike rolled his head to look at him. “Pete’s different,” he said. “You know that. He’s the partner who voters elected to the ball; they _have_ to dance with him. It’s me who’s disposable.” He glanced away again. “Like you.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Chasten’s hand was on the door and he was about to step out of the car. “Fuck you,” he said, but something about the way Mike reached out and grabbed his elbow made him sink back into his seat. “Disposable doesn’t mean divorced,” Mike said. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that. It just means..." He took a moment to consider. "Keeping you out of certain rooms. Out of discussions. Not telling you what’s really on his mind. That kind of thing.”

Chasten stared, enmity tempered by his fear that, by that definition, he'd found the word to describe the day: _disposed_.

“Maybe he’ll make you into the tenth or eleventh person he goes to for advice instead of the first or second. Maybe he’ll convince you you’ll be happier in the East Wing, arranging the state dinners and giving the White House tours and being the good little obedient wife. And by then… What’s the point of giving him advice at all? He’ll already have his mind made up.”

Chasten said nothing for a moment. He wanted very badly to say “I’ll always be first,” but he tried to say it and the words just broke in his throat. So instead he said: “What do you mean?”

Mike started picking at his thumbnail. “We need to talk about how to structure the inner circle for the general. Maybe I should resign. Maybe you should bring in someone better-suited for a national campaign. Maybe you should get someone who doesn’t know how closely you and Pete work together, or what kind of relationship you really have. If you want any of that, then… I want you to tell him that, truly I do.” He took a deep breath. “But if you think I should stay… Tell him that, too.” His voice cracked. “Please.”

Chasten sighed. He set his hands on the steering wheel and squeezed, then let them fall useless into his lap. “What do _you_ think you should do?”

“As far as I’m concerned, if the four of us got this far, we can go all the way.” A wistful pause. “But maybe I’m just deluding myself.”

Chasten replayed Mike’s words in his mind. “‘The four of us,’” Chasten noticed. “So if I vouch for you, you’ll vouch for me? To stay in the inner circle? Is that what you’re saying?”

Mike didn't say anything for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was tired. “I’m saying vouch for who you think will make your husband President.”

Chasten realized he’d begun to fidget nervously with his wedding ring. He tried to still his hands. Instead he clasped them together, tightly.

Mike interrupted his thoughts. His voice was soft. “You know," he said. "I come with one big advantage. We feel one thing that nobody else does.”

Chasten froze. He couldn’t possibly be insinuating...

“I will never, ever forgive myself if he loses,” Mike said.

The words hung despairingly in the air. “I know,” Chasten said, not sure if he was more disgusted with Mike or with himself. He got out of the car. This time Mike didn’t stop him. He stood there a moment, not speaking, not closing the door, just looking down at the cement floor and furiously thinking. Finally he leaned back into the seat he’d just vacated. He whispered - hissed, practically. “I’ll vouch for you,” he said. “But only because I’m too tired to lie to the world _and_ a campaign manager about who Pete and I really are.”

Suddenly he took the hoe in his hand from the stack of tools leaning against the wall, and struck the blade against the floor as Mike scrambled out the other side of the car.

“Don’t you _dare_ fuck this up for him,” Chasten said, and, frustrated, he tossed the hoe back against the wall, letting the other garden tools topple on top of it.


	11. 9:28pm

Chasten was getting a dozen texts every two minutes: from friends and family, from classmates and coworkers, from a few clearly terrified exes. It was as if every single contact in his phone had simultaneously decided to congratulate, flatter, or bullshit him.

He could block or ignore nearly all of them for the time being. But as he scrolled, he saw the name Streeling, and his thumb froze on the screen. Streeling was the nickname that Pete’s Harvard girlfriend had gone by back in the day: all Chasten could gather from Pete’s stammered attempts at explanation was that the word was somehow both a reference to James Joyce and her campus-wide reputation for insatiability.

He tapped her text.

_ Hey C. Small potatoes but the Enquirer just called wanting to know if Peter and I had a threesome in college _

He sighed.

_ I denied VOCIFEROUSLY _

_ But keep your ear to the ground _

_ (I know who’s responsible for shopping the story, if Lis wants to assassinate him) _

_ Congrats on the nomination and rescuing the republic _

_ Save a dance for me at the inaugural ball _

_ xo _

He remembered being drunk out of his mind at his rehearsal dinner - Streeling handing him a martini anyway - and her radiant smile settling into a more serious expression as she leaned against the wall he was staggered against. "Thank you for being special enough to love him," she'd said simply, reaching out to squeeze his free hand, and even though she was complimenting herself just as much as she was him, his heart had melted anyway.


	12. 9:47pm

Pete and Chasten sat opposite Mike and Lis on the living room couches.

In a brief flash, Chasten remembered the winter day with whiskey when they’d agreed to launch the campaign.

_ “Granted, it’s audacious, but I think the four of us could rewrite all the rules. And maybe even win.” _

Lis’s sharp voice shocked him out of his reverie. “Who’s chairing tonight?”

Pete replied immediately. “I will.”

“Good," she said. "I’ll be the timekeeper. Looks like we have about twenty minutes until Sanders goes live.”

Mike had brought a case of locally brewed beer with him and set it on the coffee table. “To say what?” he scoffed, opening up a bottle.

“Well,” Lis said, looking at him from over her phone, “if we lived in fairyland, it would be a concession, but he hasn’t reached out, and we don’t live in fairyland.”

“Fucker,” Pete muttered under his breath. “Okay. Lis, can you go over what you want tonight to look like?” Then, as an aside, “Chasten, take notes.”

Chasten leaned back into the couch cushions. He did not take notes.

“Right. So,” Lis said. “Everything fancy and emotional and groundbreaking we spent two fucking months planning - we’re throwing all that out the window. A moment of silence for the content team. But. American cities are burning. The President’s about to send the National Guard into states against governors’ wishes. We’re on the edge of fucking civil war. So you have to be short, and you have to be succinct, and you have to be sober. Okay? I want dark suits, dark ties, dark expressions. Anything emotional you say, be firm and resolute and unafraid, but don’t get within _ten miles_ of hysterical. I do _not_ need to battle a hysterical gays narrative. Everyone except me, leave your phones on the kitchen counter before we go down; if you get a fucking Words With Friends notification during this speech, I will fucking kill you live during the broadcast. The choreography goes like this. Chasten comes in on stage right, hits his mark, does his introduction.”

Pete glanced over and saw that Chasten wasn’t writing. Chasten watched Pete watch him. Pete raised his eyebrow inquiringly; Chasten pointedly didn't move. Finally, Pete cast a glare, drew a pen and notebook from his pocket, and started dutifully scribbling.

“When Chasten’s finished," Lis said, "he turns and applauds Pete. Pete, you come in from stage right and meet Chasten at his mark. Brief hug. Briefer kiss, just a peck. Then deliver the remarks; we’re working up a final draft for approval now. Keep in mind, we’ll have a few staffers behind the camera so we can see the monitors. But never, ever, ever look at us; stay looking straight at the prompter, or else you’ll come across like Michelle Bachmann during her State of the Union response, and the only thing I want either of you to have in common with Michelle Bachmann is that you’re married to a gay man. After Pete finishes, he turns but doesn’t move. Chasten, you come out quickly to meet his mark, you exchange a brief hug, and then the both of you walk off. No hand holding, no affection; we’ll risk the _is he really gay?_ hot takes and save all the touchy-feely yay-you’re-gay shit for the convention. At that point we’ll cut the feed, but don’t say a fucking word until you get the all-clear because, again, I will absolutely filet you alive if you fuck any of this up, and you have to remember that hot mics are prime times for fuckage.” She stopped and accepted the beer Mike had wordlessly opened for her during her monologue. “Pete, do you have any questions?”

Pete neatly crossed a t and dotted an i. “No,” he said, “that’s very thorough, thank you.”

Lis nodded and scrolled through something on her phone. “Chasten?” The check-in was perfunctory.

Neither Lis nor Mike nor Pete was looking at him. He knew why: because he could do what she'd just asked in his sleep, and because they took his abilities for granted. He was suddenly overwhelmed, though, by the idea of spending so much time on the theater, completely ignoring whatever was causing the fear about to boil over inside of him. He tried to say something. He couldn't.

Lis looked up. Repeated her question. “Chasten, do you have any questions?”

He hesitated. His voice cracked. “I do.”

“Then shoot.”

“What haven’t you told me?”

It was as if the three people around him were robots and he’d flipped a switch that turned them off. They all froze simultaneously, and stayed frozen.

“What do you mean?” Lis finally asked.

“Actually, my question’s directed to the chairman.” Chasten shifted on the cushion, turned to face Pete head-on. Pete just stared. “What haven’t you told me, and why haven’t you told me it? What exactly has Trump been threatening?”

Pete’s expression drained of its personality. He suddenly looked analytical, disconnected, unfeeling: the very model of everything he'd ever been accused of being. “Now is not a good time to get into hypotheticals,” he said stiffly.

Chasten was furious suddenly that he’d taught him how to pivot so well. “No,” he said, holding firm. “Give me the hypothetical. Or I won’t introduce you tonight.”

Pete glanced at Lis and Mike. They stared back with wide eyes.

“Chasten,” Mike said eventually, in a dutiful attempt to rescue Pete, “the timing on this question isn’t exactly…”

Chasten kept his eyes on Pete’s but raised a finger in Mike’s direction to shush him. “Shut up,” he said, “or there won’t be any vouching.”

Mike fell silent.

Pete sighed. “Jesus Christ, Chasten, he's right. Literally any other time would be a better one to talk about this than now.”

“I agree,” he said, unblinking. “It would have been.”

Pete stood, breaking their symmetry. “Are you sure you want to hear it now? Right before you give a speech to the entire country?”

“Are you insane?” Chasten asked. His heartbeat was hammering like an off-balance washing machine. He noticed that Lis was still holding her phone in her hands, but her gaze had dropped to the floor. “Of course I want to hear this now. I should have heard it the same time you did.”

Pete took a breath. “Lis, keep an eye on the time, please,” he said; she gave a single, quick, silent nod. Pete set a hand on the mantle, as if subconsciously searching for something to stabilize him.

“Over the last week,” he began, “there has been an uptick in leaks to the campaign and to the upper echelons of the party about what’s really going on in the White House. About what they’re planning to do to win. And about what they’re planning on doing after.”

Chasten was cautious. “Which means…?”

“Whistleblowers are starting to tell us more about what he’s willing to do to ruin us and our running mate. He may well destroy our reputations, and he may well destroy our marriage.”

He sounded like an intelligence analyst giving a briefing. Chasten couldn’t believe it. “You’re fucking joking, right?”

Pete seemed to bristle at that. He gained an air of superiority. “I don’t expect you to understand the weight of what the moment is asking. In fact, I don’t want you to.”

“Make me,” Chasten said, and he didn’t look down. To his great satisfaction, Pete was the first one to break eye contact.

“We don’t know which claims are true and which are false," he said. "There are probably some of each. We need more time to vet the threats.”

“Okay. What are they?”

And suddenly Pete jumped into it all.

“Trump isn’t just working with Russia and Ukraine. He’s scheming with China and Saudi Arabia and several other countries. That we know of. He has made it clear that he will reward anyone who shares damaging information about us or anyone on our staff. The smartest people in the world are lining up to hack anything that any of us has had access to. Every detail of our lives will be fair game for him.”

“Okay,” Chasten said.

“He has talked behind closed doors about retaliating against Democrats by targeting candidates’ family members. He’s obsessed with how his own children have been treated, especially Ivanka. He believes that people who have been traditionally off-limits during campaigns should no longer be.”

“Okay,” Chasten heard himself say.

“Your parents, your brothers. My mom, my cousins. Anything unflattering about any of them could be found out and shared, in a way that nobody will be able to trace back to him. He won’t face any repercussions. Anything that will be embarrassing for us, anything that will make us fight with the people we love. It'll be psychological warfare. It's 2016 on steroids.”

“...Okay.”

“It’s very likely that at some point in the next few months there will be some kind of damning edited tape that will surface that will show me or show you or show…show both of us saying or... _doing_ things together that we didn’t actually say or do. Even if his team doesn't doctor the tape himself, he’ll insist it’s real, or cast doubt on its debunking, like he did with Obama’s birth certificate.”

Chasten’s brain was going so cloudy that it took a moment to understand what Pete was straining to suggest. By the time Chasten realized the implication, Pete had moved on.

“The votes won’t be counted by Election Night. With the pandemic, it’s going to take weeks. The system isn't set up for this number of absentee votes. Nobody who loses is going to trust the outcome. Different countries and companies have the ability to hack into voter registration files. Hackers don’t need to change votes; they just need to ensure enough people in enough places can’t vote or can only cast provisional ballots. There will be endless lawsuits. Mass confusion, mass hysteria. It’s going to be Florida in 2000, but in every single swing state. The make-up of the new Congress is going to be in doubt. And you can guess what might happen if anything about any of this goes to the Supreme Court.”

Chasten bit his lip. He tried to say _okay_ again but couldn't.

“He’s been encouraging President Xi to build concentration camps. He’s told people that journalists should be thrown in jail for decades. He didn’t care that the Russians had bounties on the heads of American soldiers in Afghanistan. He - ”

It was suddenly too much. “He can’t do all that,” Chasten said. “He can’t. This is America and he’s the most incompetent fucker to ever set foot in that - ”

“Jesus Christ, Chasten, have you been in a fucking coma?” Pete cried, and at the edge of desperation in his voice Chasten fell silent. “‘ _Lock her up’?_ Kids in cages? He ordered the military to tear-gas civilians yesterday, and they fucking did it! Do you remember any of that? Or were you too busy analyzing tie color to notice?”

This was a deep cut. “I do a  _ hell  _ of a lot more around here than choose your ties,” Chasten breathed.

Pete ran a hand through his hair. “Look,” he said, tone tighter but quieter. “I was only trying to protect you until we know what’s real and what isn’t. There wasn't any reason for both of us to be drawn into worrying about - ”

“You think I’m weak, don’t you?” Chasten asked. He was surprised at how calm and level his voice was.

“I never said - ”

Chasten stood himself. “You think you’re the white knight on the horse and I’m the damsel in distress. And you’re using that weakness as an excuse, aren’t you? To distance me. To - to - to _dispose_ of me. Now that I got you the nomination, you want to swoop in and take over and start making all the important decisions on your own. To turn me into your wife. Well, I’m not your fucking _wife_ , Peter. I’m your husband. I’m your partner. You’d better start fucking acting like it.”

The loaded silence between them sizzled for a moment.

“You know,” Pete finally said, “I wouldn’t have attempted any of this if I knew you wouldn’t even _try_ to understand.”

Chasten’s laugh was incredulous. “Oh, please. You’d dive into molten lava if you thought it would make you President.”

Chasten didn’t even flinch at the twitch of betrayal that suddenly flashed across Pete’s features.

Lis spoke. “Sanders’s speech just got pushed up,” she announced, setting down her phone. “Go get changed. We’ll go live afterward.” She stood up herself. “Both of you, forget every single fucking thing you just said. Go see a marriage counselor on your own time. Not the country’s.”


	13. 10:26pm

Chasten opened the closet door and regarded the row of dark empty shoulders facing him. He picked through the clothes carefully - lifted out his ironed pants and suit coat and crisp dress shirt - chose a navy blue tie so dark it was almost ebony - and, satisfied, turned around and nudged the door closed with his elbow.

Pete was behind him, looking at his phone and reaching out his hand, distracted and expectant. Chasten was confused, until he realized that Pete thought he was handing clothes over for him, and at that idea he barked a laugh that startled Pete.

“Yours are in there,” he said, and he stepped out of the room and across the hall to the bathroom.

Once he’d changed, and combed his hair one last time, and adjusted his blue-black tie in the mirror, he turned his back to the door, leaned against it, and just listened. A few minutes later, tentative footsteps came out of the bedroom. They hesitated at the head of the stairs. Lingered. The floors creaked, and he heard Pete murmur in a low apologetic voice to Buddy. But finally the steps disappeared downstairs, and a thick stillness seemed to settle on the house. Chasten looked at his watch, waiting for the second hand to sweep in a circle a few times before finally opening the door and following him.

The basement television was turned up loud, and he could hear Sanders's voice even before he was all the way down the steps.

_“The major task that we now face is to ensure that Donald Trump is defeated soundly at the ballot box in November.”_

Chasten rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Mike was shaking his head almost imperceptibly, fingers closed tight around a beer. Lis was directing the curses she clearly wanted to hurl at the screen at the lighting setup instead.

And in the very back of the basement, in the shadows, stood Pete. His eyes were fixed on the screen, fixed on Sanders, like a panther on prey. He glanced at Chasten as he came down - then looked immediately away, as if he’d been caught doing something he had no right to do. Chasten swallowed.

_“But there should be another goal. The grassroots must redouble its efforts to strengthen the progressive movement. Because such a movement is this country’s only hope for lasting change.”_

Chasten slipped through the fake set, around the camera, and stood next to Pete. Pete didn't move. They both listened, quiet.

_“We intend to leverage the energy of the movement we have built together these past months and take our energy to the Democratic National Convention.”_

A "fuck you" burst out from Lis, tossed over her shoulder at the screen. Pete took a sudden breath and looked down at the floor. Chasten looked at him. Looked at Sanders. Looked back at Pete. Pete looked as if he'd been stabbed, and Chasten's heart suddenly felt as if it was bleeding.

_"My campaign and Mayor Buttigieg’s campaign have been in communication. I look forward, in the coming weeks, to continuing the conversations with him. To all those who were inspired by our movement, to all who supported it financially, to all who gave your time and your energy and your vote to it: I promise you, your voices will be heard."_

“Say,” Chasten said. His voice cracked. "Turn toward me."

Pete hesitated for a moment, but finally, reluctantly, he looked away from Sanders’s speech and turned toward Chasten. His shoulders were tense.

Chasten reached up and untied his husband's rumpled brilliant blue tie. He started over, re-tying it around Pete's neck. This time the knot was perfect and tight.

He leaned to whisper in Pete's ear.

"There," he said. “Let's kill it."


	14. 11:15pm

Chasten strode out to his mark, looked straight into the curve of the camera lens, and regarded the distorted reflection of himself he saw there.

He straightened the index cards he’d set on the podium before they’d gone live.

He wavered for a moment.

Finally he tucked them inside his coat pocket, and made a show of doing it. In his peripheral vision he could see Lis’s head jerk up from watching the monitor. He followed her instructions and didn't look at her.

“About a year and a half ago,” he began, “my husband came home from work and told me…” (He paused, appropriately thoughtful.) “...well, he _asked_ me…” _(That’s better.)_ “What do you think about running for President?”

_“Stop laughing,” he says, even though he’s laughing, too. “We’re going to be describing this moment until the day we die. We both have to remember the same thing, and it has to be vivid as fuck.”_

_“Okay, okay. I just - I’ve never made a fake memory before.”_

_They’re in their bedroom, on either side of the bed. Chasten has brought the laundry up to fold. He figures that laundry is a fittingly domestic chore for a First Gentleman to be engaged in when blindsided by spousal ambition._

_“So,” he says, voice cheery, “how did your political retreat go, dear?”_

_Pete honest-to-God smirks and Chasten almost wants to say fuck it and fuck him. “Really well, darling. We talked a lot about how the 2020 field is shaping up.”_

_Chasten folds a shirt. “Yeah? Are you thinking of endorsing anyone, dearest husband?”_

_“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. What do you think about running for President?”_

_Chasten drops the shirt onto the sheets. “President? Really? - Peter, stop. I’m - Goddammit, Peter, you’re making me laugh.”_

_Pete's dropped onto the mattress in glee. “Because this is fucking insane. The idea you would have given me the time of day if I wasn’t interested in running for President someday…”_

_Chasten’s smile suddenly fades. He figures they’ve made enough of the memory to use. He throws the fresh laundry on the floor and collapses into bed with him._

“And I laughed,” Chasten said. “Not at him, but at life, because…”

He paused, stretching out the silence for just a hair too long.

“Because life gave me some interesting experiences on my way to find Pete.”

_It's ten years ago. His boyfriend is stalking around their bed, tossing clothes into his suitcase. Chasten’s stammering. “If I ever hurt you - I didn’t mean - ”_

_“You're nothing but a bullshitter,” his boyfriend says once the last shirt is thrown in. He starts to zip the suitcase up. “Always have been, always will be. God, I pity the man who ends up having to deal with it."_

_Chasten backs up, stands against the door, lashes wet and hot and salty. “I never meant to hurt you. You can’t leave until you understand that." He repeats himself a little desperately: "I never meant to hurt you.”_

_“You don’t know how_ not _to hurt people,” his boyfriend says, tearing up himself, and the words make Chasten weak enough that he can be easily pushed out of the way._

“After falling in love with Pete," he said, "Pete got me to believe in myself again. I told Pete to run because I knew there were other kids sitting out there in this country who needed to believe in themselves, too. This campaign has been built on an idea of hope. An idea of inclusion. An idea of addition rather than subtraction.” He addressed his words to the man behind the camera who he wasn’t allowed to look at. “About bringing people together. About looking your neighbor in the eye and saying, 'Maybe we don’t agree on everything, but let’s agree on this: We’ve got one shot.' And that’s what the Democratic party has. All of us must give it everything we have, because…”

He thought of Donald Trump - lying in the bed that should, by all rights, belong to a man like Peter - watching and judging him now. He felt his throat tighten in quiet fury.

“Because it is time for every person to look to the White House and know that that institution stands for them. That they belong in this country.”

He paused long and hard for emphasis, as if delivering an applause line, even though the basement was deathly silent.

“It will always be my honor and my privilege to share my husband with the rest of the world. Always.”

_He’s drunk after his rehearsal dinner, leaning over a sink, exhausted and terrified and buzzing and queasy and somehow, for some reason, relating his entire life story to Streeling, who is standing beside him, and asking and answering an oddly endless stream of questions._

_“That’s exactly why I didn’t marry him,” Streeling says in reply to a comment he doesn’t remember making. “Because he never would have been just mine.” She pauses, offers him another drink. He shakes his head and turns it down and says thank-you. “But you love him, don’t you?”_

_“I’ll always love him,” he declares, "no matter what I do to him, I'll love him until the day I die," and he grasps the edge of the counter to steady himself until Streeling pats his shoulder, commiserating, and the nausea passes._

“And I am so proud that the person you saw on the debate stage is the same person you saw at a town hall is the same person who comes home to me every night.”

_The lie I’ve trained him to be._

He swallowed. “For those of you who know me, you know I’m not usually short with words. But tonight I will be.” He took a moment to gather himself. This would be the part that would someday go into the documentaries. “It is an honor to introduce from our house in South Bend, the man who will evict Donald Trump from the people’s house in Washington. The person I love so dearly, my husband, and the presumptive Democratic nominee, future President of the United States, Peter Buttigieg.”

He turned to his right. Pete followed the choreography perfectly, except he let his lips linger against Chasten's ear, brushing an awed and quiet _“thank you”_ against it. Chasten patted his shoulder and stepped past the view of the camera and sat on the table by the stairs. Lis had stepped out from behind the monitor. She handed him a beer, the top already off, and offered her fist for a fist bump. Suddenly emotional, he wrangled her into a hug instead.

“Thank you, Chasten,” Pete said, looking at him. He was in front of the camera, but Chasten could tell the look wasn’t for the camera. The look was for him. The look was real. Pete turned forward to face the country. “And of course he and I and everyone else on the campaign wish that it was safe to celebrate this historic day meeting, talking, and shaking hands with our friends and neighbors, but if we have to stay put to stay safe, it is so good to stay put and stay safe in South Bend, and it is especially good to stay put and stay safe with him.” He laughed a half-laugh to himself at a thought that just occurred. “Sometimes the longest way round really is the shortest way home.”


	15. 2:17am

“More here,” his editor had suggested, and so once he came upstairs after Pete’s speech, he gave more. He was exhausted and emotional and closer to honest than he’d been in a long time.

_ Peter likes to poke fun at me for how upfront I was about the future on our first date. But he’s quick to tell that part of the story when journalists pry, which vindicates me. Maybe I was too forward, but at that point I was just done with bullshit. I was surprised by how quickly we both realized we were in love - how fast I turned into his, and he turned into mine. _

_ Peter is more romantic than you’d expect an egghead know-it-all to be. In our early years of dating, when I was traveling between Chicago and South Bend for graduate school, he’d leave me notes to find when I came in at midnight. Sometimes they’d even show up in my textbooks or my lunchbox. _

_ He’s a surprisingly sensitive photographer. We both have an eye for details, but in different, yet complementary, ways. When we’re lying on the couch thumbing through old photos - friends’ weddings, trips up north for Christmas, afternoons spent practicing speeches, sunsets in the backyard - I’m always taken by how he captures me, and how he seems taken with my presence. The simple act of being seen and acknowledged means everything. It haunts me that I'll never be able to repay him. _

Rereading, he didn't even know if it was any good, but it was better than nothing, and it was almost all true. He could edit it later.

He straightened out the hunch in his back, wincing at the tightness between the shoulder blades. For a long time he looked at his phone, lying face-up on the desk and displaying the time.

2:42.  2:43.

_ It can wait. _

2:44.  2:45.

_ But you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t tell her. _

So he reached out slowly and took the phone in his hand and dialed. He steeled himself to comfort her.

“Babe?” his mom asked, picking up on the sixth ring. Her voice was thick with sleep, tight with fear. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

He was so desperate to tell the truth that he couldn’t even muster a hello. “I would have told you in person, but right now this is the best I can do,” he said. “I'm not changing anything about you or Dad or Rhyan in the book. What I gave you to read is what's going to be in it. Because Peter and I only have one shot, and we have to make it count.”

He could hear sheets rustling on the other end. He imagined her disoriented, struggling to sit up, his snoring father beside her, dead to the world as always. “Chasten.”

“I don’t have any other choice. I wish I did. I don’t.” He blinked a few times. “I’m so, so sorry, Mom.”

Silence. He pushed on grimly.

“I need you to promise to back me up on everything. Any discrepancies, ever, you agree with my version of events.” He took a breath. “At this point, you’re going to lose Rhyan or you’re going to lose me. It’s up to you who you want to keep.”

There was a long pause before she finally said, “Okay.”

“Do you promise?” he asked. “Please promise me, Mom." He sounded like a terrified little boy again.

“I promise,” she said. She sounded just as terrified as he did.

“I love you,” he said, and then, hearing the words spoken aloud, he rushed to explain: “And I’d love you even if you didn’t promise. You know that, don’t you?”

“Okay,” she said again, shakily.

“We’ll take care of you. We’ll give you everything. We’ll give you the world.”

“The world is a lot to promise.”

Chasten’s gaze lowered to the floor. “I know,” he said, and he fell quiet.

“Have you slept?”

“No," he said. He didn't know how to explain to her how difficult it was to go from talking to millions of people to sleeping, so he didn't even try. "I’m late with this batch of edits as it is.”

“Oh, hon,” she murmured. “Go to bed. Things will look better in the morning.” She thought of something. “Is Peter still up?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he isn’t, wake him. Tell him what you’re feeling. Have a good cry with him. Let him take care of you. Someone has to take care of you.”

He smiled sadly at her innocence. He smiled sadly at how she’d always love them both, but never understand them, or him, or what he was apparently willing to sacrifice. So instead he just said, “I love you, Mom,” and he meant it with all his heart.


	16. 3:15am

He stood in the open doorway of their bedroom, leaning against the frame, watching the gentle rise and fall of his sleeping husband’s breath. For a reason he couldn’t understand, he was hesitant to step in and take his place beside him. He began to unbutton his cuffs, thoughtful.

The attic stairs creaked. He glanced down the hall. Lis approached, Cersei slinking between her bare ankles. The attic was unbearably hot in the summer, even with the window air conditioning going full-blast, and she was dressed in a short white silk nightie, with a blazer tossed over her shoulders for modesty: half extremely professional, half extremely not.

She glanced at Pete. “You okay?” she asked Chasten.

“Yeah. I’m just too tired to sleep,” he said. “What are you doing up?”

“Bathroom,” she said simply. “Too much coffee. Out with the old, in with the new in…” They realized simultaneously she didn’t have her phone on her. She reached for the nearest timepiece: the watch on his wrist that Pete had given him. “About two hours.”

He was surprised he wasn’t surprised at her gesture. He didn’t move. She didn’t drop his hand. His fingers curled around hers.

“Your speech tonight was fucking incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“I watched his face,” she said. “While you were talking. I’ve never seen anyone more in love.”

He smiled at the flattery that he would have fallen for once. “You’re only saying that so we stop arguing."

“No," she said, sincerity disarming. "I’m saying that because you were born to be his.”

He didn’t want to be touched by her earnestness. He was, anyway. “I know,” he said.

“And he was born to be yours.”

Chasten didn’t acknowledge her beyond a murmured "hm", but as he dropped her hand he starting turning the words over in his mind. When it came to his marriage, he was much more used to being described as the possession, not the possessor. The idea that both he and Pete owned the other was more comforting than it had a right to be.

“Do you need a glass of water?” Her voice went gentle. “For the pill Mike gave you?”

He didn’t say anything. She interpreted the silence as consent and slipped into the bathroom. He heard the faucet go on and off, and Cersei’s insistent meow. She returned with the glass and handed it to him. He wavered, but finally reached into his pocket, took the pill he’d left there, and drank it all down. "There," Lis said, satisfied and soothing, and she set the glass on a hallway end table.

Her head rested on his shoulder, and her hand ran comfortingly up and down his arm. They watched Pete sleep together. He felt like they were parents watching over a child prone to nightmares.

As the moments passed, he became more and more attuned to the gentle pressure of her hand grazing the inside of his elbow - the scent of her shampoo - the shared memories of the past few years. He felt himself start to melt into her touch before he caught himself and suddenly put his hand over hers, hard.

“I’m very flattered," he said, "but I’m also very gay.”

She punched him where she’d just been stroking. “This isn’t sexual, you dumbass. It’s me being nice. Jesus _Christ.”_ She shuddered.

It was a relief to laugh, even quietly. “Why would you be nice?”

She didn’t return the tease. “Because you’re the only person who can take care of him. And he has to take care of the country.”

He hesitated. He noticed that the three of them were breathing slow and quiet, in the same rhythm. Finally he gave in to what felt like her silent invitation, and leaned his head against hers. He spoke into her hair; it felt soft and sleek against his face. He whispered his great secret. “I feel less human every hour.”

“Doesn’t worrying about it mean you are human?” She kissed his cheek, chastely. He almost ran a hand through her hair, but realized what he was about to do just in time, and froze.

“I - ”

“See? Human. It’s okay.” She realized he was genuinely spooked. Her voice grew softer. Sympathetic. “It’s all okay.” Then she said something that shouldn't have made sense, but did anyway: "We three are who we are."

He bit his lip. Nodded.

Pete turned over in his sleep. They both watched him.

“I realized something during your speech,” Lis said.

“Yeah?"

“That we’re going to win.”

Chasten thought this over for a minute. Closed his eyes briefly, trying to imagine it. All he could see was darkness.

“And then what?” he asked.

He opened his eyes. Her smile was inscrutable. “I don’t know,” she said.

He waited for the inevitable obscene, smart-ass follow-up. There was none. Instead, she just patted his arm one last time.

“Good night, Chasten,” she said.

He stayed standing in the door. He heard her disappear into the bathroom, whispering affectionately at Cersei. He sighed, stepped into the bedroom, and closed the door behind him. He changed. The sky out the window was just beginning to lighten. He looked out the window, transfixed by the fading stars. He also began to feel a little wobbly. It was the pill kicking in.

He rolled into bed and felt Pete roll onto him. Pete’s half-conscious voice mumbled against his neck. “Where you been?”

Chasten closed his eyes for the last time that day. He felt the breath at his collarbone. “Working.”

“Good,” Pete whispered. “But you’ll be here now?”

“Always,” he said, automatically and without preconditions.

* * *

June 3, 2020

6:00am

Chasten heard careful footsteps coming up the attic stairs, and the clink and rattle of dishes and silverware on a wooden tray. He glanced at the time and rubbed his eyes, willing to wake himself up from his story to real life. He hadn’t pulled an all-nighter like this since the depths of the campaign, and he was suddenly remembering why. He felt a wave of panic, not sure how he'd function for the rest of the day, but then he remembered that, aside from turning edits in, he didn't need to function. His schedule was clear and he could collapse into bed later for a nap, and if he was lucky, he could pull Pete down with him.

He looked up. There was no bed, no cats, no mini-fridge, no beer, no television, no Lis. _There never had been_ , a voice inside him soothed. _There never had been._ Not here. In the attic, in real life, there was just a futon and a bookshelf and a bird singing in the empty lawn outside and unsorted detritus from when he'd cleaned out the attic in mid-March and now, his husband, wearing an apron and setting the tray on his desk. On the tray was tea and coffee, buttered toast, two reheated halves of a cinnamon roll from the batch that Chasten had made the day before in a fit of writerly procrastination, and a tiny bowl of fruit salad with two forks.

In the corner of the tray was a little bud vase, overstuffed with five fresh peony blossoms.

“Good morning, Mr. Memoir Writer,” Pete whispered, and he looked like a parent waking up his child. He sat down at a deliberate angle, as he always did when he visited Chasten's office, so that his memoir would remain unread until Chasten was ready to share.

“So,” Pete said, picking up the roll. “Did you finish your edits?”

"Not the ones I was supposed to," Chasten meant to say, but he looked at his husband and it came out as "I love you" instead.


	17. 6:05am

As Pete leaned forward in his chair, Chasten leaned back in his, watching Pete’s hands fret over the flowers. Finally, inevitably, Pete gave up. “They never look good when I arrange them,” he said, petulantly almost, and, piqued at himself, he took one of the forks and stabbed the tines into cantaloupe.

Chasten tilted his head slightly and assessed. “Because they need room to breathe,” he noticed. He withdrew two stems and picked up the pair of scissors on his desk, cutting off a couple of inches from each. When he returned them to the vase, the blossoms were staggered. “That helps balance them out.”

Pete set down his fork and turned the vase around. His expression melted from annoyance to awe. The entire shape of the arrangement had been altered.

“See? You did fine. You just needed a little help, that’s all.” Chasten set the scissors back on the desk and picked up his fork.

He was about to change the subject when Pete interrupted him. “Where did you learn to do all this?”

Chasten laughed. “Do all what?”

Pete didn’t laugh back. “Fix things. Make them better.” He raised his eyes from the flowers; the dark ice of them, even after all these years, still burned as intensely as the first time they'd met. “You save them.”

Chasten broke his gaze. He smiled inside himself that, independently of each other, they'd each landed on the flowers as a kind of metaphor.  “I’m not sure,” he allowed. “I’ve just always known how.” A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Did you shake them?”

“Fuck.”

He shrugged and smiled, too relieved at being needed to mind. “Well. You’ll learn.” He said a silent prayer that Peter would, in fact, never learn. "They're beautiful anyway."

“But there’ll be ants in our food.”

“I can crush them.”

Pete raised an eyebrow. “After naming them for our enemies?”

Chasten said nothing for a moment, then gently pushed petals aside until he found an ant. He coaxed it gently, lovingly, onto his fingertip. Trusting him, it skittered onto his skin.

“ _ You don’t seem to embody that anger _ ,” he said, and he crushed the ant, grinding its little body between his fingertips and then calmly wiping the remains on a napkin. He glanced at Pete, who was seemingly disgusted and delighted in equal measure.

“I married a monster,” Pete said.

“And,” Chasten said, picking up his tea, “it was the best thing you ever did.”

Pete didn’t argue the point.

They sat together in quiet contentment. The quality of the early morning light grew more and more golden against the slope of the ceiling. The day ahead, it seemed, would be bright and warm.

“So,” Pete said. He took a careful, deliberate bite from a cinnamon roll. “Were you editing anything…” He hesitated. “Uncomfortable?” Then, not looking at Chasten, and studiously buttering his toast, he added, “You know, I’m always here if you need company.”

Chasten felt himself melting a little. “I…” he started, wanting to share news of his progress. But he hadn’t made any, and he couldn't lie, so he ended up asking a question instead. “If you’re writing fanfiction about yourself, is it technically still fanfiction?”

“What?”

Chasten sighed and set down his tea. “I’ve been writing about what would have happened,” he said, "if you would have been the nominee.”

“Oh.” Pete carefully dragged the edge of his fork against his plate, collecting the icing. Then, in a tone that Chasten found adorably suspicious: “Did your editor ask for that?”

_ "Nobody _ asked for this.”

Chasten watched a few different expressions fight for dominance on Pete’s face. It broke his heart a little when a hopeful one won out. “Were we happy?”

“Not even a little bit.”

Pete looked relieved, then clearly realized he was relieved, then looked confused to be relieved. “Tell me about it,” he finally said. He spoke with an urgency that Chasten wasn’t expecting.

Chasten flushed, focusing on pushing fruit around their shared bowl. “No, it’s dumb,” he said. “It’s just procrastination; I don’t even - ”

“Please.”

Pete was serious. Suddenly Chasten realized he hadn’t been alone in wandering an intricate alternate universe. He should have known. He sighed, turned to his laptop, and tapped at his keyboard. “There,” he said. “I emailed it to you.”

To his surprise, Pete silently, defiantly, broke their no-phones-at-breakfast rule and set to reading. After a moment he stopped eating. Chasten watched every flicker of his eyes back and forth, up and down his words.

Finally he set the phone down. He calmly took a sip from his coffee. Chasten said nothing.

He was beginning to assume there would be no reaction until Pete said, “Don’t post this before Bolton’s book comes out.”

Chasten's mind had already begun wandering to other things; Pete's words snapped him back. “What?”

“You put a line in there about the Xi conversation. And a bit about the Russian bounties. The general public doesn’t know about that yet.”

Chasten bit his tongue, not letting it go until his eyes watered. Pete had been reluctant to let him sit unseen in the corner during the the Biden team briefings as it was. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t really going to post it, not - ”

To his relief, Pete smiled. He clearly wasn’t as bothered by the potential breach as he should have been. “Unless, of course, you _want_ to suggest your pseudonym has a source in the State Department.”

Chasten served the volley back with some gentle flattery. “Or a husband who’s getting ready to lead it?”

“Don’t jinx it, babe.”

“I don’t have clearance to jinx anything, Mr. Secretary.” There was a sudden silkiness to Chasten’s voice he hadn’t consciously meant to impart, but which, once he realized it was there, felt so very right.

Pete’s face burned pink; he blinked a few times, rapidly. They both lapsed into silence again. Chasten’s attention turned back to Pete’s phone. He felt he had to clarify something.

“You know," he said. "You wouldn’t be that person."

Pete was clearly still thinking about State. Chasten felt almost bad, rousing him from his dreams. “Hm?”

“The person in the story. I’ve just been…” He swallowed. “I’ve just been thinking so much lately about everything that happened before you, and the yelling and the screaming and the being disposed of, and I don’t know what happened; I think it all just sort of seeped into how I wrote your - ”

Pete interrupted. “I would be that person.”

They looked at each other. For a fearful pinprick of a moment Chasten wondered if maybe Pete was right. He wondered how to lie to comfort him. He drew a blank.

Pete continued without waiting for a reply. “But next time… Maybe I won’t be.”

Chasten didn’t say anything to that - whether it was because he didn’t believe it or wanted too badly to believe it, he didn’t know.

Pete sighed, picked up his phone again, and scrolled. “Why do you think you wrote this?”

“I don’t know,” he said automatically. But the longer the question hung in the air, the heavier, the more obvious, the truth felt. He tried to ignore it, like he’d ignored so much else, but the weight got to be too much. He could tell that Pete saw there were words wrestling at the tip of his tongue. Pete waited. Finally he came out with it. “Because… I’m not happy.”

Pete’s expression was somehow both hurt and unsurprised. His voice, however, stayed calm. “You’re not?”

Chasten hurried to qualify. “Well, I’m happy in this moment. With you. Here, today.” He hesitated. “But if I knew we were never running another race again…” He trailed off.

Pete took a moment, then nodded. “I know.”

“It’s just…” He felt his brow furrow. “I’ve thought over and over and over again about everything…”

“Yes,” Pete said, with a note of warning that Chasten didn’t catch at first.

“Imagining what it would have been like if we’d pulled it off, because we could - ”

Pete’s voice turned sharper. “Yes.”

Too late Chasten caught on to his discomfort. He glanced down at the tray. Some trains of thought still hurt to take. “Yeah.” He took a breath, felt a wave of sadness. “But I wouldn’t have been happy if we’d won, either.”

He glanced up. Pete’s expression grew abstract.

“And I suppose writing this… Was me reminding myself of that.” He shrugged. “That’s all.”

“Mm.”

They said nothing for a few moments, just continued eating. Chasten intuited that neither of them thought the conversation was over, but didn’t know what to say to keep it going.

“Peter,” he said eventually - quietly, cautiously. “Why do we want there to be a next time?”

He thought Pete would have an answer ready, as he always did. He didn’t.

He continued, hesitant. “Nobody’s holding a gun to our heads. You won Iowa. You got your asterisk in the history books. We could fade away now. We don’t owe anyone anything. We could learn to be happy faded.”

Pete sighed and set down his coffee. “You know why.”

“I do?”

“Because I promised you an adventure. And that’s the reason you said yes.”

Chasten wanted to protest that. He’d said yes for so many other reasons. But he wanted to be honest, and he found that all he could say in reply was “I know.”

He was about to feel guilty when he looked up and saw in Pete’s sad fond eyes that wanting _him_ on the adventure had been  _ his  _ reason for asking.  _ We know each other,  _ he  reminded himself. _He’s the only one you don’t need to pretend for._

“I feel so guilty for not being happier,” Chasten said suddenly. “Because next June…” He suddenly couldn’t speak; his throat and chest had suddenly both tightened, and he didn’t want to understand why.

Pete finished his sentence for him. His attitude was detached, but his voice cracked. “We’ll be apart again.”

“A lot.”

“Yes.”

“More than we ever have been.” Chasten said the words carefully, like he was testing the idea of the pain of them.

“Well. It’s too early to know.”

But Chasten swept on, clearly thinking otherwise. “We’ll be living separate lives. You won’t need me to be the best you can be. Nobody cares what color tie the Secretary of State wears.”

To Chasten’s surprise, at the words, a small smile played at the corners of Pete’s mouth. “You do a hell of a lot more around here than just choose my ties,” he said, and at the allusion to their fictional argument Chasten smiled a shadow of a smile, too. But then Pete’s expression grew serious, and the color of his eyes somehow even deeper. “I’ll always need you, Chasten.”

What Chasten said next felt impulsive, even though, without consciously realizing it, he’d been sitting on the silent thought for months. “If I ever get too sad to say it…” He glanced away before looking back at Pete. “Don’t forget me, please.”

“What?”

“When you’re overseas, and it’s been a long day, and people’s lives are on the line, and you’re in some big shiny hotel suite alone, and there’s security outside the door, and you don’t want to call me because you know I’m asleep, even though I’ve  _ told  _ you a million times that you can, and you need to hear someone say Peter and not Mr. Secretary, and you’re missing the dogs, or you’re missing our bedroom, or you’re missing me… Maybe missing the baby; I don’t know…” He took a breath. “Just don’t forget me.” He felt his face redden, the blush spreading high up his cheekbones, at his outburst. “That’s all. Don’t forget me.”

Pete slid his hand over the desk and took the fork from Chasten’s grasp. Gently he pressed against the fingers, opening them up like a flower. Then he took his thumb and began, very lightly, to rub back and forth just beneath the fingers, at the very top of the palm.

“I’d forget the sun before I’d forget you,” Pete said, and that was all he said, but it was also all he needed to.

Chasten watched the caress. “I wish I wanted something else for you,” he managed. “A life that wouldn’t burn you alive.”

“You want the life for me that I want.” Pete gave a tiny shrug. “Isn’t that what love is?”

Maybe. “Our love, anyway.”

Pete nodded. He looked out the window, as if he felt he’d suddenly made himself too vulnerable. But he didn’t pull his hand away, and Chasten didn’t take it back.

“Do you think we’re meant to be happy?” Chasten said.

The question had a kind of surface-level flippancy, an irony, to it. But Pete seemed to recognize that it came from some place deeper, and he took a moment to respond, and as he waited for the answer, Chasten’s heart beat a little faster.

“I don’t know if anyone’s meant to be anything,” Pete said finally. He turned his gaze back to Chasten. “But I think you’re meant to be mine and I’m meant to be yours.”

He shrugged, helpless. With his free hand he picked up the vase. Underneath was a note on folded cardstock. Some water from the peonies had dripped down onto it, but the messy handwriting was still legible:  _ love you love you love you _ .


End file.
